


Young & Proud

by ladyamesindy



Series: Giorraíonn beirt bóthar - Two People Shorten A Road [3]
Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Earthborn (Mass Effect), Gen, Irish Language, Irish vs. English, Military Backstory, Military Training, sniper school/training
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 03:28:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29289093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyamesindy/pseuds/ladyamesindy
Summary: Leaving Ireland and theTenth Street Redsbehind him, Caleb Shepard finds a new life in the Alliance military.  Presented with a chance to fulfill one of his dreams, sniper school, he thinks nothing can stand in his way.  Until he meets his roommate, an unexpected rival and a man who can jeopardize everything he’s worked towards so far in his career…Coats drops onto his bunk, relaxing back against the pillow.  “So, what’s a Paddy like you doing in the Alliance?”Caleb swallows tightly.  Only his bed, about three additional feet between them, and his ability to keep his temper in check separate him from the Englishman.  Silently, he debates whether or not he can make the distance in one leap.  Ideally, he wants to yank the man’s tongue out so he can’t speak; instead, a tight smile forms at his lips but doesn’t quite reach his eyes as he sacrifices that whim to keep his dream alive.  For now.  “Same as anyone else, I expect …”
Relationships: Male Shepard & Major Coats
Series: Giorraíonn beirt bóthar - Two People Shorten A Road [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1784806
Comments: 28
Kudos: 9





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> HUGE thanks to [mallaidhsomo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mallaidhsomo/pseuds/mallaidhsomo) and [potionsmaster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/potionsmaster/pseuds/potionsmaster) for their betaing skills and suggestions!!!

Life in the Systems Alliance, Shepard discovers, is never a dull moment and always challenging. Every day is the same yet different, and he’s more than tired more by the time he hits his bunk. Exhausted doesn’t begin to cover the deep-seated drain and mind-numbing emptiness of the current eighteen-hour duty day. 

_That’s what you get when you have your squad in the wrong place at the wrong time and Sergeant Givens decides every assault rifle on base needs to be stripped, cleaned and reassembled._

It isn’t like he and his squad can walk away from a direct order, either. Well, they _could_ , but he’s found a place in the Alliance, one worth keeping, and he isn’t about to lose that simply because Givens doesn’t like him. And if there’s one thing Shepard has figured out, it’s that the sergeant does not like him. The man is careful, though. Nothing explicitly said, no overt actions. Shepard knows not all English hate the Irish these days; in fact, he’s met several during Basic and AIT who have been rather decent. Still, there are some, like Sergeant Givens, whose main goal seems to be making Shepard’s life, and by association his squad’s, a living hell.

_Every fucking last assault rifle on the base, Corporal Shepard._

_Sweet Jesus, Mary and Joseph; how can one base have so damned many?_

Basic and AIT training taught Shepard and his squad the how, and the process is one they can do it in their sleep, if necessary. But a base’s entire armory of ARs? And, while the training base isn’t huge compared to others in the Alliance, the number of assault rifles on hand seems to be. When all is said and done, they lose a good eight or nine hours to get the job done, and _that_ is on top of their assigned duties. By the end of the day, Shepard relies on pure willpower to remain on his feet, hoping it’s enough to get him to his bunk. 

Stumbling into the barracks, and though his body is thoroughly exhausted, his mind still races. His one remaining goal is to fall into bed and get as much sleep as he can before heading out on a five-mile run at 0600. _Please, sweet Jesus, let that be enough to avoid Sergeant Givens again!_ Dinner doesn’t matter. A shower can wait. Blessed, blessed sleep is all he needs right now.

Half-conscious when he falls into his bunk, he nearly hits oblivion as his head touches the pillow … until a sharp beep followed by a persistent vibration at his left wrist yanks him back awake. Hissing a curse in his native tongue, he cracks one eye open to glare at the device. A small orange button near his wrist flickers twice in rapid succession and repeatedly indicating two incoming messages. The temptation to let them wait is real – neither appears to be a direct call – but it could be something requiring immediate attention and, therefore, needs to be addressed sooner rather than later. He fights back irritation even as he rolls onto his side and triggers the screen. 

What he finds waiting startles him. 

The first message originates from Alliance Command. The sender’s name is unfamiliar, but the contents are not. Nearly three months ago, maybe closer to four now, he submitted an application for sniper school – his hope, his _dream_ since enlisting. At the time, there wasn’t an opening, but this message contains orders for him to report to a base just outside London in two days’ time. After today’s misadventure, the transfer is a blessing in disguise. He skims his way through the pertinent bits and notes his base commander has been informed. Reaching the end, he sighs softly in relief. No more worrying about Sergeant Givens, then. Good. Rolling onto his back, Shepard takes a moment to message Corporal Peters, transferring temporary leadership of the squad to him. 

For the first time in months, hope burns bright in his chest. 

The second message is one more of a personal nature. Still, the sender’s name – not one he’s used to yet, but it’s more recognizable these days – stirs a thread of worry deep in his gut.

_To: Corporal Caleb Shepard, Systems Alliance_

_From: Corporal Connor O’Bannon_

_RE: Tada gan iarracht**_

_Caleb –_

_I hope this message finds you well and at peace with your new life. I hear from Anderson you’ve successfully made it through basic and advanced infantry, and are now stationed just outside of Kent. It’s good to hear that military life agrees with you. I thought it might after your experiences here. My thoughts and prayers are constantly with you, don’t ever forget that._

_Anderson also tells me you are about to head off to sniper school. He sounded surprised at first, but I’ll be honest, I expected no less! Your skill at hunting, tracking, and shooting are legend around Shannon. Far too much of a one, I fear; it is a very good thing you left when you did._

_I will be blunt, son, the_ Greystones _have absorbed the last of the_ Reds _– the people, the name, all of it. Believe me when I tell you, the_ Reds _only agreed to this plan as a survival tactic. None who remain do so willingly. And, unfortunately, since your departure two more of their number have been lost. I’ve no doubt you remember Shane and Siobhan with fondness. I light candles daily to their memory in your stead, fear not in that regard. May the Lord bless and guide them to peace._

_Caleb, Anderson mentioned you will come due for leave once you finish sniper school, and though that is some months away, I beg of you, do not return home. The situation here is … difficult, to say the least. The nature of the_ Greystones _organization now is still somewhat chaotic. They are, as I understand it, taking the name of the_ Reds _for reasons of which I am not fully certain, but I expect it is for no good. Their activities here are far more expansive than the_ Reds _would ever have sought. Dealing in red sand, supporting any and all anti-alien measures, enforcing protection fees from locals – I am certain you understand – but most importantly, using violence to achieve their goals. If and when you should hear of these things with the_ Reds _name attached, know it is not they, but the_ Greystones _behind it._

_It is frustrating I know, but please, son, pay heed to my words. They use the_ Reds _name to confuse the issue, to frighten the locals into submission and reliance upon them for their survival. No good can come of it, I know you understand that, but if you allow your anger to guide you, you will end up a corpse lining the streets. Remember Aoife and Colin! Do not waste the opportunity you have! You will do far better to fight them from afar!_

_My eyes and ears are open. Should the situation change for the better, you will be the first to know, of that I promise. In the meantime, focus on your new life and make the most of it. But, most importantly, do yourself the best favor you can, lad; stay away from Ireland._

_Blessings upon you,_

_Athair_

The omni-tool fades out leaving Shepard in the dark as his head thumps back into his pillow with force. Righteous indignation swims through his veins at the news. _Killing us, destroying us isn’t enough; they take our name and soil it further!_ His chest rises and falls rapidly even as his heart races, and for just a moment dizziness assails him. But despite all of this, he understands. _Athair_ is right to warn him away. The priest knows him far too well; Caleb would be on the next flight to Shannon otherwise, sniper training ahead of him or not. It is a bitter pill to swallow, but one he ultimately accepts. At least, for now.

Another soft beep pulls him off the teetering edge of a downward spiral into his past. A quick glance assures him it’s just Peters acknowledging the change for the morning, but it is enough to pull him back to the here and now. He slings his arm over his eyes and forces his head clear of all thought, a trick he learned from Colin long ago. Since leaving Ireland, it’s more of a challenge to accomplish at will, but when combined with the tendrils of exhaustion that have not fully fled, sleep soon pulls at him. Blessedly, he does not dream. 


	2. Keep the Dream Alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New assignment. New people. Old experiences.
> 
> aka: An Irishman and an Englishman walk into a pub ... and a brawl ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, huge thanks to [potionsmaster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/potionsmaster/pseuds/potionsmaster) and [mallaidhsomo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mallaidhsomo/pseuds/mallaidhsomo) for their betaing skills!

Navigating through the sterile-white halls of the barracks isn’t difficult. If there’s one thing Shepard knows from the couple of years he’s served in the Alliance, it’s that they like to use, or reuse, the same floor plan in their buildings; anyone – from enlisted personnel to senior officers – can find their way through the same maze with as little difficulty as possible. Personally, he finds it insulting, as well as a huge security risk, but for most people involved it comes down to a simple matter of finding the right door no matter where they are. Given some of the people within the Alliance that Shepard has met, it’s probably just as well.

It takes him less than fifteen minutes to find his quarters. Three floors up, two halls over. As he approaches, he finds the door ajar, as if anticipating his arrival. But unlike those he passes along the way that are still empty, the room is occupied. His roommate has apparently arrived before him and Caleb finds him sitting at one of the two desks inside the room focusing intently on something he cannot quite see from this distance. He raps lightly on the door with his free hand, giving the man all due consideration and warning of his presence before stepping inside. All he has is a name – Corporal Ryan Coats. No harm in trying to get off on the right foot. 

Coats turns and rises to his feet. Tallish in frame with dark hair and grey eyes that remind Caleb of the Irish Sea in a storm, he wears an all too bright smile on his face. A prickle of wariness shimmies across Caleb’s skin, putting him on watch in case the man is hiding something or being deceptive in some way. “You must be Shepard.”

Coats extends a hand, and Caleb steps forward to take it, though his heart sinks a bit at the same time. It isn’t the potential deception that bothers him – he can live with that – but the broad English accent. Of course, being in-country and stationed just outside of London, chances are his classmates will be English, so it’s not really unexpected, but Caleb has become adept at identifying some of the regional accents. Coats, he’s willing to wager, is from somewhere in London, and that is just enough to trigger unease. And not just a classmate, but his roommate. 

“Aye,” Caleb replies after a couple of long minutes. He sets his duffle on the empty bunk, eyes never leaving the other man as he watches for his reaction. “And you’re Coats?” 

One thick, dark brow arches and the left corner of the man’s lips tilt upward a fraction in wry humor. “They roomed me with a bloody Mick, did they?” he mutters beneath his breath. “Well, that’s just grand, isn’t it?”

 _This is going to be a long couple of months._ Caleb stiffens. It’s not the first time he’s had slurs thrown his way, and it certainly won’t be the last, but for some reason, it stings more this time. Dark gremlins from his past stir to life deep in his belly; he counts to twenty before turning to unpack his bag while responding, “Got a problem with that?” There isn’t much aside from his uniforms and essentials inside, and the task takes only a few minutes to complete.

Either Coats doesn’t read people well or he just flat out ignores the question. “Where ‘bouts are you from, Irish?”

Caleb hesitates, the last message from _Athair_ still clear in his mind. _They can’t know … not yet … can they? He would have said._ “Shannon,” he finally replies, trusting his instinct that the _Greystones_ – no, the _Reds_ now, he corrects himself – cannot get anyone placed this deeply into the Alliance. Not yet, at any rate. “You?”

“Hammersmith.” The response is immediate, as if he expected the question.

 _Hammersmith._ Caleb shoves his bag out of the way under his bunk once he’s done unpacking, then turns to Coats. “London, isn’t it?”

The other man laughs. “Yeah, but _London_ doesn’t sound as good.”

Tradition in the Alliance, particularly as they move through the lower ranks, is for soldiers to refer to one another by their hometown name. This isn’t the first time Caleb’s run into it, and he’s certainly used it with others while somehow managing to avoid it for himself. The gleam in Coats’ steely eyes suggests the use of _Shannon_ is about to become a more common occurrence whether Caleb likes it or not. _Blast_.

Coats drops onto his bunk, relaxing back against the pillow. “So, what’s a Paddy like you doing in the Alliance?”

Caleb swallows tightly. Only his bed, about three additional feet between them, and his ability to keep his temper in check separate him from the Englishman. Silently, he debates whether or not he can make the distance in one leap. Ideally, he wants to yank the man’s tongue out so he can’t speak; instead, a tight smile forms at his lips but doesn’t quite reach his eyes as he sacrifices that whim to keep his dream alive. For now. “Same as anyone else, I expect …”

~

Turns out, there are only handful of people in this sniper school class, which means the competition isn’t just tough, but Caleb will have to be at the very top of his game if he wants bragging rights. From the moment he enlisted, from the _instant_ he realized it was an option, sniper school has been his goal. His previous experience in the _Reds_ and the skills gained there lend themselves well to this type of training, and it gives him far more opportunities for his future. A worthy goal, indeed.

It does, however, require him to buckle down and focus. In his youth, _Athair_ was a strict teacher, requiring his students’ full attention for the duration of class time, even if the subject wasn’t a particular favorite or easy one. Caleb treated his time in Basic and AIT as an extension of that. Sniper school looks to be no different, only with a greater intensity, perhaps. No doubt it’ll be a challenge, but it’s one he’s actually looking forward to, and said as much to Anderson shortly after their arrival in London …

_“Connor tells me you are a natural with a rifle,” Anderson comments while working on dinner. Caleb observes quietly from a nearby barstool. “He thinks you should consider infantry training.”_

_Caleb shrugs, long fingers tapping lightly against the side of his drink. “Is that my only option?”_

_“Of course not.” Anderson places two large steaks into a heated frying pan. They sizzle immediately, mouth-watering aromas filling the small kitchen area. “And the decision is entirely yours, no matter what he or I think.”_

_Caleb leans forward so he can peer over the edge of the counter to the stove below. The smell leaves his stomach rumbling, but he ignores that for now and lifts his gaze to meet Anderson’s. “I want sniper school.”_

_Something sparks behind dark eyes filled with warmth and humor, though Caleb is at a loss to describe what it is exactly. “You like to aim high, don’t you, son?”_

_Caleb grins and sips the drink before quoting, “_ I know that I shall meet my fate Somewhere among the clouds above.” _**_

_One of Anderson’s brows arches as he folds his arms across his broad chest. “Dammit, you’re going to be just like him, aren’t you?” He mutters on a bit more about smart aleck Irishmen before turning his full attention back to their meal._

_With a soft chuckle, Caleb takes another sip of his drink. “_ Athair _? Aye, probably. Did he quote W.B. Yeats in opportune moments?”_

_“Inopportune, more like,” Anderson snorts. “If not him, someone else would have, I suppose.” Sighing, the older man keeps a cautious eye on the steaks. “Well, if you want to get anywhere close to sniper school, you’ll learn to keep that in check.” His dark eyes flare a bit in support of the warning._

_It isn’t likely to be an issue, so Caleb instead turns the subject back to sniper school itself. “Will I be allowed in?”_

_“That is entirely dependent on how you do in your prior training.” He gives Caleb a knowing look. “If what Connor told me is even_ half _of the truth, I doubt you’ll have any issues. It may take some time to get in – it’s a pretty elite group - but if you really want it, don’t lose faith. Understand?”_

 _Caleb nods, eyes narrowing slightly as he remembers the one name still on his_ list _. Oh, yeah, he really wants this. “Aye, Anderson, I understand …”_

~

It becomes clear within the first day or two that Coats’ natural leadership skills blend well with the group as a whole, except for Shepard. This isn’t wholly unexpected, and Caleb does his level best to make the most of the opportunity despite that fact. It’s only natural that the others, most of whom have a similar background to Coats, ally themselves with him. The Systems Alliance may be global, but they have training facilities in most regions; it’s just his damned luck to be stuck at one so near, yet so far from home. Still, he has a plan, a goal, and he isn’t about to let anyone or anything get in his way of it. Whether in the classroom, on the range, or training, he looks for any and every advantage he can find.

By the end of the first week, he and Coats plus two others are at the top of the list; Caleb is fine with this as there is still plenty of time left in the coming weeks for it to sort itself out, but he isn’t one to leave anything to chance. A routine is established. Training or classes throughout the day, but of an evening, they gather at a pub just off base. _The Keg & Cannon_ isn’t half bad, Caleb decides, though it’s no _Old Neddy’s_. The ale is good and they almost always have Guinness, so he has no complaint. At least, not about the tap. The company, however, is another story altogether.

The atmosphere of the place typical of pubs, from what he’s seen. It’s big enough for the nearby townsfolk plus the extra overload from the base. The common room is larger than _Old Neddy’s_ by about half, he guesses, and has a good mix of tables and booths, most made from dark and polished wood that add warmth to the room. Low ceilings and walls covered with an array of photographs displaying the history of the area and its association with the base over the years give off an almost claustrophobic feel when the place is packed. A small platform sits in one corner, likely for live entertainment, and on the opposite side of the room there is a place for darts and pool. It only takes a couple of visits to see that _The Keg & Cannon_ is a lively place and very popular with locals and soldiers alike.

Tonight, Caleb heads for a small table against the far wall he tends to occupy whenever he visits; out of sight, out of mind, he hopes. He has no interest in being poked fun at, but neither is he willing to walk away from an opportunity to relax after a long day of training. He’s got his right to it just as readily as the others, even if he prefers to indulge in a quieter manner.

Unfortunately, tonight appears to be the one night the rest of the pub cares less about his wants and desires than their own. 

It begins innocently enough. As he’s done each visit over the past three weeks since arriving, Caleb waits until Coats and company head over, gives himself an extra half hour, then follows. 

The barman, an older woman by name of Ellen tonight, pulls him a pint – they have Guinness on tap tonight, as it turns out – and he heads for his usual table. It only seats two, so chances are it’s free since most people here come in groups of four or more. But as he rounds the end of the bar, one of the locals – a young man, large and burly, mop of curly dark hair and a hint of drunken mischief in his brown eyes – knocks into Caleb’s shoulder jerking it to his right and spilling half the contents. Caleb tries to catch himself and the pint, or at the very least avoid the table nearby, but with no such luck. Some unfortunate sod gets drenched. 

That sod just happens to be his roommate. Accident or not doesn’t matter; Coats is on his feet and in Caleb’s face in less time than it takes to blink. Caleb has a couple of inches on the Englishman, but Coats is broader in the shoulders. 

“How’d a blind Mick like you make it this far bein’ so clumsy?” Coats challenges as he shakes the beer out of his hair and off his shoulders.

Caleb isn’t one to back down from a fight, fair or not, especially not one against a bloody Sassenach who isn’t aware enough of his surroundings to realize it wasn’t his fault. Still, he doesn’t want to lose his spot here, his chance at his dream, and he isn’t the type to stir up trouble these days unless he has no other choice. Holding his free hand up, palm out while juggling the pint upright in the other, he tells him, “Don’t be thick! It wasn’t on purpose – someone pushed into me!”

He doesn’t take his eyes off Coats’ and sees the fist headed his way without any trouble. He has half a second to make a conscious decision to stay still or duck out of range, all while the rest of their classmates shout protests and jump to their feet in Coats’ defense. Cursing a blue streak inside his head, Caleb braces himself for the impact …

There’s a resounding roar around him when the fist connects with his jaw and it grows exponentially in volume along with the pain. Instinct has him testing it carefully to make sure it still works – it does, though achingly – but he clamps down on retaliating, hoping Coats isn’t so drunk he can’t think his way through the situation. 

“A likely story!”

Chances of that, apparently, are slim tonight. He has no idea how much Coats’ has had to drink at this point as he takes a hit to his mid-section that tosses the pint from his hand. The tinkle of shattering glass can barely be heard over the brewing chaos as he doubles over. More shouts fill the air, the scrape and squeal of chairs and tables being pulled apart to create space adds to it, and more than a few slurs aimed directly at him echo around them. Caleb ignores it all, snaps his head back up and keeps his eyes focused on the man before him. There’s an intense gleam in Coats’ light grey eyes, one that suggests the man has just been waiting for such an opportunity. 

_Bastard! You’re going to ruin this chance for the both of us!_

This time when the punch comes, Caleb is prepared and uses his forearm to block the swing. Hand to hand combat might not be his forte, but he knows how to defend himself reasonably well and what he doesn’t is backed up by his years of living as a _Red._ He fares decently, at least until Coats connects to his left temple, which is far too close to his eye for comfort. 

That’s when Caleb gives in and goes on the offensive.

It's as if a switch has been thrown. Dodging out of range of yet another fist, this one aiming for his right shoulder, Caleb swings around and jabs at the man’s lower back near his kidneys. He’s surprised at how satisfying it is to hear the Englishman grunt his surprise, but he doesn’t dwell on it. Instead, he keeps moving. When one of their classmates shouts a derogatory slur and attempts to intervene, Caleb sweeps a leg out and knocks him on his arse. “ _Is minic a bhris béal duine a shorn!_ ”**

Too stunned to react at first, it takes a half second before Coats rubs his arm across his face to clear it. It’s the advantage Caleb needs, and he jabs his knee to Coats’ groin area. The man groans, hunches over even as Caleb grapples him around his shoulders. “You fight dirty, Shepard.” He then follows it with a solid punch to Caleb’s ribs.

Caleb takes the hit and bites back a groan; no sense giving the man the satisfaction. “So, do you, Coats.”

The fight continues for several minutes, all while the pub fills with shouts, cheers and grunts. Coats manages to connect with Caleb’s cheek, just near the corner of his lip and splits the skin; blood trickles down his chin and drips off to stain his shirt. Caleb retaliates by headbutting the man’s nose, leaving behind a matching trickle and wondering if he’s managed to break it. While most bets are off – especially the number of close calls Coats makes to Caleb’s face – Caleb has sense enough not to do anything that will result in permanent damage. Or, at least nothing more than a small scar or two. 

The fight finally breaks up some time later when the police arrive, flooding into the pub and pulling them apart. As the adrenaline bleeds out and the most basic of medical attention provided on the way back to the base, Caleb’s thoughts immediately turn to what they’ll face next. He would much rather appear in front of Major Walker because he’s won the top spot in their training course than to get chewed out for a pub brawl, but he doesn’t have much of a choice in the matter, and if experience means anything, he doubts the major will see things his way. 

Major Walker doesn’t make them wait long, no doubt aware of the situation through his own sources. Thankfully, the man isn’t a screamer. He dresses them down thoroughly, however, assigning them third watch guard duty for the duration of training as punishment. Without any further comment, they’re dismissed. All things considered, it’s far less than what Caleb expected.

On the way back to their room, neither he nor Coats speak to the other. The tickling trickle at the corner of Caleb’s lip reminds him that the split skin will take a while to heal, and as soon as they reach their room, he applies more medigel. While he isn’t – and likely won’t ever be – in a mood to help Coats, he does toss the medkit in his direction before taking his turn at the shower. The smell of sweat and stale beer mixed with blood isn’t anything new to him having grown up in _Old Neddy’s_ , but it’s not one he wants to smell any longer than necessary. When he returns, Coats heads off for his turn and Caleb climbs into his bunk. He still has some work to do and he sets his omni-tool to get up in time for guard duty, but as he tries to read the information on the datapad, his vision is just blurry enough he opts to set it aside for now. He can read over breakfast in the morning instead. Burying himself beneath the covers, he makes the most of the opportunity for sleep that he can, though like most nights, it does not come easy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** “An Irishman Foresees his Death,” by W.B. Yeats.
> 
> ** _Is minic a bhris béal duine a shorn_ = Many a time a man's mouth broke his nose. (Your mouth can get you into a lot of trouble)


	3. One Hell of a Kick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting down to business.
> 
> aka: Just a 'friendly' game of darts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, huge thanks to [potionsmaster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/potionsmaster/pseuds/potionsmaster) and [mallaidhsomo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mallaidhsomo/pseuds/mallaidhsomo) for their betaing skills!

The first day with a new weapon is always one of excitement for Caleb. The weapons they’d had back in his _Reds_ days had been good enough for their purposes, but the Alliance’s equipment is far better. A slow; bubbling flutters in his veins while his head focuses on the challenge of figuring it out how to make it work to its fullest capabilities. 

He has also learned to appreciate the first day on a new firing range with a weapon. It isn’t anything like real conditions, of course, but having the option to get used to a new set up _prior_ to using it in a combat situation is always a plus, especially for those who might have issues figuring it out. Thankfully, after years of training from Colin and Ruairí, his instincts are pretty good. Their lessons flit through his mind as he takes time to inspect the weapon in his hands. _Time and patience are a shooter’s best friend_. Caleb understands that well, just as he understands that utilizing the opportunity here gives him the best opportunity away from the range. 

Given the makeup of their class, it doesn’t come as any surprise when a competition, friendly or otherwise, develops between all the candidates or that Coats is the one to beat. The man has an innate skill with ranged weapons, it seems, and his targeting is excellent. Caleb quickly identifies him as the one to beat.

He isn’t certain how or why they’ve ended up as roommates, but there is no way in hell he’s going to let the bastard beat him. Pride is certainly the greatest factor involved, but there’s a certain level of ability involved, too. From what he’s been able to determine, he and Coats are about on par with each other. Yet, with each subtle dig the man tosses his way, with every targeted slur – friendly or not – Caleb’s resolve solidifies. Intensifies. He won’t argue he doesn’t have a chip on his shoulder; he knows he does, and it’s going to help him prove that _this_ Irishman is better than any Sassenach.

The first week on the range is spent reviewing standard issue Alliance weapons. Each student has ample time to prove proficiency in order to move on. Beginning with the second week, however, the game steps up when the ‘big guns’ are brought out. Like a moth to a flame, Caleb’s eyes are drawn to the highest, top quality sniper rifles the Alliance has available. Again, each soldier must show proficiency with the variety of weapons presented. By the end, not only will they have experience with them all, but their weapon of choice will be selected.

Having worked their way through the others, today, Caleb is getting to know the Naginata. From the moment it’s placed in his hands, he examines it with a critical eye. A part of him can’t help but wonder what life back in Shannon might have been like had he had access to a weapon so fine as this. Could they have defeated the _Greystones_ with it? The scope offers the clearest line of sight he’s ever had with a weapon. He spends time taking it apart, cleaning it and putting back together, but when the time comes to test fire it, encouragement isn’t necessary. He’s the first one standing up at the firing line, anxious to make it dance in his hands.

Adjusting the sight, he takes aim at the far end of the range. He’s read up about all the different rifles the Alliance offers, and this particular model can have a bit of a kickback. He takes a moment to test its weight against his shoulder as he considers his options. If he isn’t careful, ‘a bit’ could translate into one hell of a bruise in the grand scheme of things which could well ruin his chances of passing the course, so he decides to err on the side of caution and make adjustments for that. 

The scope brings the target at the end of the lane into view beautifully; so clear and focused he swears he can see the dust motes dancing in front of the target. The target itself is a generic humanoid shape, but that quickly morphs in his mind, taking on the shape of one of the _Greystones._ A small, feral smile curves across his lips. _Finch._ _I will find you yet, you bastard. Just you wait…._

They are given no specific point to aim for, but Caleb doesn’t need one as he steadies his hand. When the order to fire comes, he depresses the trigger; slow, easy, just the slightest pressure until he knows if it needs a firmer touch. This one doesn’t. The shot flies from the barrel, races down the lane and hits the target dead center.

“Not bad, Shepard,” Gunny calls over. 

It’s taken time to discover, but around here, that’s as high a compliment a soldier can get. Caleb also notes no one else’s shot receives comment. Still, he isn’t satisfied. He missed the target in his mind’s eye by a half-centimeter to his left, just off of where the heart should be. _But you don’t have one, do you, Finch?_ Reloading the rifle comes automatically and without thought.

Gunny’s order to fire again follows a second or two after, this time with a specified target. _Left shoulder._ Carefully, Caleb takes aim again. There is a breeze, very slight, drifting across the far end of the lanes – someone has opened a window that he didn’t notice earlier. Making a minute adjustment for that variance, he slides his finger over the trigger.

“Fire!”

Ten shots race down the lane. Caleb watches his through his scope to see clearly where it lands. Nearly perfect. Setting his weapon on the tray before him, he takes a step back and waits for orders. 

This continues for the rest of that afternoon. When they reach the end of the week, all ten candidates have a basic proficiency with all of the Alliance weapons, but three, including Caleb, are at the top of the list. It’s time to move the lessons to real world conditions.

From here on out, training becomes more of a test. The trick this day is to see who can last the longest in a contest of accuracy and distance. Caleb is ready as are the others. A firing order is determined and each soldier takes their turn. Over time, the distance between the target and their firing line lengthens. Eliminations don’t begin until they hit the 500-yard mark. Same as indoors, their target is of a vague humanoid shape, but out here the weather conditions play a greater factor. Wind, moisture, sunlight or lack thereof – all of it. And; each shot is further away, making the shot progressively more difficult. 

It will take them a full week of testing sessions under a variety of conditions to determine their rankings, but by the end the average shooter will be separated from the best. The goal for sniper school is to be ‘last-man-standing.’ Caleb aims to be that man. 

Day one on the outdoor range comes to an end with students caring for their individual weapons. Taking them apart, cleaning them thoroughly, storing them properly and then handing off to Gunny Reeves who puts them under lock and key the weapons lockup. There is zero tolerance for cheating here, and no one will get any special advantage. 

Heading over to _The Keg & Cannon_ again at the end of the day is still a thing, despite previous visits, tense relationships, and the fact that Caleb and Coats are still on night guard duty because of it. They mind themselves well, and Coats warns off the others in their class, reminding them they aren’t out to destroy anyone’s career. At least, not for something as stupid as this. Better to leave it to the competition on the field to decide.

“What’re you having?” the barman asks as Caleb enters.

Caleb considers, and opts for one of the ales on tap. She pours with expert precision, tilting the glass at a proper angle and adjusting as necessary as it fills. When she hands it over, not a drop has spilled. Caleb nods his approval, pays, then heads off to find his seat. He could have stayed back at the barracks, studying or simply minding his own business in private, but his demons haunt him tonight, following actively in his wake. It’s far better to be out here where he has half a chance of being successfully distracted.

People avoid him tonight, which is fine by him. He is content to nurse his drink while his gaze wanders over to the darts. Coats and his pals; what a surprise. Sighing to himself, Caleb hides behind a long sip of his drink, hoping to remain ‘invisible’ even though he’s in plain sight.

Fate is not on his side again tonight, it seems. 

“Shannon!”

Coats lands in the empty seat across from him sometime later, his glass hitting the table with a loud thunk as some of the ale sloshes over the brim and dribbles slowly down the sides. Caleb manages a wry smile even as he replies dryly, “You found me.”

Amused, Coats downs half his glass in one swallow. “That I did,” he agrees with a chuckle. “So, what’re your thoughts on the Naginata?”

Caleb’s brow lifts, arching in suspicion. They’re coming due for qualification testing soon; he’s not about to give anything away that might give the man an edge over him. He shrugs noncommittally. “Better than what we had in Basic and AIT.”

Coats’ laughter is still present, though more rueful as he rubs his shoulder. “It’s got one hell of a kick, though.”

Caleb can’t resist a smug grin. “That it does,” he agrees. Lifting his pint, he murmurs with only a hint of irony, “ _Sláinte_.”

“Cheers.” After downing another quarter of the glass, he gestures towards the darts and asks, “Fancy a game?”

The unexpected request sets alarms screaming in Caleb’s head. “Are you serious or looking for another reason to brawl?”

Coats’ chuckle evolves into a full out belly laugh. “Ah, Shannon, that was just a misunderstanding.”

A _misunderstanding_. Caleb isn’t buying it, but no need to let the man figure that out just yet. “I see.”

“C’mon, let’s play a game. What d’you say?” Coats glances over his shoulder in the direction of Leicester and Grimsby who were currently competing against one another. “I figure you’ve got to offer more of a challenge than these lads.”

A part of Caleb agrees in silence, though another part of him suspects there still has to be more to the request than a new challenge. He’s kept quiet about his abilities, simply watched from afar the nights he’s come here. There’s no way Coats should know how well he plays. So, if not the game itself, what else is the man after? Something in the compensation? “What stakes?” he asks as he takes another drink.

“Best out of three legs; loser buys the winner a round.” Coats pushes to his feet. Looking back over his shoulder, he eyes Caleb. “You in, Irish?”

Three legs, loser buys a round. Even if that includes the rest of their group here, it’s doable for him; he’s not spent much of his earnings since he enlisted, so he’s got plenty saved. _Go hifreann leat,** if you be lying to me!,_ he thinks to himself, rises to his feet and grabs his pint as he follows him across the room. “Aye, I’m in.” _And same for me, for I never can back down from a challenge, can I?_

It’s been a few years since Caleb played darts, but once upon a time in his youth he’d been quite good at it. Memories dating back to _Old Neddy’s_ and better times as well as his _Reds_ days return easily, if not welcomingly. Faces of old friends now long gone. But at least they cheer him on tonight instead of judge him. That is an improvement.

Coats sets his pint aside on a table and accepts the arrows from Leicester who hands them over with barely concealed ill-grace. “Know how to play?”

A tiny, smug smile toys at Caleb’s lips. For just a second, he has trouble reining it in. “I could use a refresher course,” he admits, keeping his full attention on Coats. He’s glad he does because he sees the sparkle of mischief flicker in the grey eyes. _Aye, you’re up to something, all right, aren’t you, boyo_. 

Still, Coats takes a good five minutes to go over the rules, and during that time nothing strikes Caleb as out of the ordinary. Grimsby keeps score for them as the first leg starts simply enough. It takes several rounds for the flow of the game to return to him. At first, he pays little attention to anything but placement, his own as well as Coats. The majority of the time, he hits close to his target; the few times he misses, it’s mostly just on the edge. Only twice does he lose it further off. 

Coats is good and takes the early lead. By the mid-point of the round, Caleb catches him and keeps pace from there forward. The latter part of the match is an all-out battle between the two of them, with Caleb barely squeaking out in front. Though his attention focuses on Coats and the game, the murmur of voices around them is impossible to miss as the rest of the sniper class gather around to watch. 

“Not bad, Shannon,” Coats says, giving him a nod of respect. “How would you feel if we made things a bit more … interesting?”

Caleb shrugs and finishes off his pint. “What d’you have in mind?” he asks, projecting his accent a bit more thickly than usual. The sparkle in Coats’ eyes brightens – at this or his easy agreement, Caleb isn’t sure, but he has his suspicions. 

“How ‘bout we play this leg with the opposite hand?”

Caleb feigns surprise, but his earlier guess proves correct. “You said nothing ‘bout that ‘fore we started.” His protest is mild, the type someone a little too deep in their cups might make, a hint they are off their game.

This time it’s Coats who shrugs, though the sparkle doesn’t leave his eyes. “Didn’t think of it before.” 

Caleb has no intention of backing down from the added challenge; if anything, he finds it amusing Coats decides to go that route. _Are you blind? Or just not that observant?_ he wonders to himself. “Aye,” he agrees after a moment with affected reluctance. “We’ll switch up.”

Stepping up to the oche, he side-glances in Coats’ direction. That gleam is still there, sharper than before. Caleb turns his sights onto the clock and takes aim, a small smirk forming. _Think I’m that daft, do you?_ He makes sure there’s a hint of wobble in his wrist when he releases it. As before, he’s willing to go down early, to purposely fall behind. Any intel the man thinks to gain off of him will, in effect, have little or no value. At the same time, Caleb keeps a keen eye upon his roommate, with the same considerations in mind.

It turns out to be another close leg, down to the last flight of arrows. Caleb started first and has the opportunity to win out but opts to let Coats take the leg instead, without looking like he’s handing it to him, of course. As expected, the rest of their sniper buddies cheer on enthusiastically. Internally, however, irritation roils. 

Dropping the off-hand requirement for the last leg, Caleb continues as he has for previous two, which results in a close fought final battle. It’s only as they near the very end, when it’s down to just over a hundred points left for each of them, that Caleb drops the act. In one round, he wins out. As Caleb walks over to collect his arrows from the board, the room goes silent. Not just his companions, but the entire pub. Caleb struggles to keep his smile to himself when he hands over the darts to Grimsby. To Coats, he says in a clearer voice, “I’ll collect on that debt another time. We’ve got watch in thirty.” 

With a wave at the barman, Caleb departs the pub and heads back to base.

It isn’t until he’s through the checkpoint and about to enter their barracks he hears footsteps rushing up behind him. With a quick move, he pulls the door open and steps to the side, allowing Coats inside first. In silence, they head up to their room. Only once the door is closed behind them does Caleb speak, and that comes with action before words.

Grabbing Coats by the collar, he pushes him against the wall, bracing him there with his forearm across his chest as he glares deep into the startled grey eyes. “I don’t tolerate cheaters,” he snarls.

Coats shoves him off as he glowers back. “Who’s cheating?” he demands. “I just asked for a friendly match!”

 _Friendly_. Caleb’s eyes narrow to slits. “And switched the rules in the middle of it!”

“Hey, mate, you agreed to it!”

“Wasn’t given much of a choice, now was I, _mate_?” He keeps his eyes on Coats’, on alert for anything sudden. “If you were trying to determine my skill level, all y’had to do was ask.”

Coats turns away with a hiss. “Like you’d tell me anything.”

“You think you’re more successful with that lazy attempt at subterfuge?” Caleb counters. “I learned more about you tonight than you did me.” He grabs his gear and his weapon and waits over by the door. 

“Shows how little you know,” Coats sneers as he walks past on the way back out into the hall. 

Caleb snorts softly, securing the door behind them. On the way down the stairs, he says, “Is that so? All right then, let’s see how observant you were. Which is my dominant hand, _boyo_?”

Coats yanks the door open for them, replying once they’re outside. “Right.”

“Wrong.”

Caleb walks another five feet before he stops and turns around on his heel to face the man now standing stock still behind him. “ _Ciotóg_ _.”_ When Coats frowns, a small grin appears on Caleb’s lips as he waggles his left hand in the air between them. “I’m left-handed.”

Coats blinks in bewilderment. “But you shoot right-handed, even did better in our darts match with your right-hand!”

“That’s how I was taught, but I can go both ways.” 

Coats blinks once. Twice. “Bloody fucking hell!” he mutters, but momentary exasperation quickly turns into a laugh. He runs a hand through his hair before extending his other. “You got me fair, Irish. No hard feelings?”

Caleb accepts the hand, but his dark look doesn’t change. “Don’t underestimate me, Hammersmith. I intend to come out on top. Nothing will stop that.”

Coats smirks and falls into step beside him. “We’ll see about that. Looking forward to the challenge.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Go hifreann leat! = To hell with you!


	4. Teammates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the past comes back to haunt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HUGE thank you as always to [potionsmaster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/potionsmaster/pseuds/potionsmaster) and [mallaidhsomo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mallaidhsomo/pseuds/mallaidhsomo) for their betaing skills!

_Teammates_. 

Frustration roils inside of Caleb; bubbling, churning, but he hides it deep. He’s good at that, keeping things to himself. Hiding his true reaction. The injustice of it goes against his very nature, but since joining the Alliance it isn’t supposed to matter. They’re all supposed to be on the same side. Though some, like Sergeant Givens back in Kent or the Sassenach bastard here he is being forced to team up with, can get away with it; Caleb knows if he truly wants to make a career out of being a soldier, a bit of self-control is necessary. And _that_ , he thinks, is the best way to get back at them. Beat them at their own game. The _Reds_ might not have succeeded in that endeavor, but Caleb did. And he will do so again.

Temporary truce in place with Coats or not, Caleb discovers his counterpart is not quite so adept. His opinion on the pairing is obvious. Then again, it isn’t wholly unexpected. There is no time to take satisfaction from that, however. They still have to pair up, work _together_ in order to pass this part of their training. While not certain if this is part of their punishment for the incident at the pub or if it occurred naturally, in the end, it doesn’t really matter; all Caleb has to do, all _they_ have to do, is get through the field test with the top score. After that, it doesn’t matter. 

Caleb heads toward the barracks after training the day the pairings are announced. Most of the others head toward the pub, including Coats, and for just a moment, Caleb cannot hide the bitter disappointment he feels as a result. _Privileged Sassenach prick_ , he thinks, resentment surging through him. _How do you expect to achieve anything if you’re drunk off your arse?_

If the man is dead set to sabotage their efforts, Caleb will have to pick up the slack. He enters their room and snags his _Naginata_ case – now that they’re allowed to keep them – from beneath his bunk as he walks by. There isn’t enough room on his desk to clean it, so he sets up on the floor in the center of the room. Slowly, methodically, he takes it apart, carefully inspecting and cleaning each piece. As he does, his thoughts drift back to the past, to Shannon, to his life before the Alliance. Of sitting around a table in a tiny, dark closet of a space helping _Ceannaisi_ clean their limited cache of weapons. One memory leads to another, and soon he is remembering _Old Neddy’s_ and the other _madrai_ , enjoying a night of music and laughter and good drink. But there is one memory above all others that seeks him out, that he _cannot forget to save his life_ , and that is of Aoife, her young, beautiful face lying so pale, cold and lifeless beneath his hands in those last days ….

He comes back to himself with a start, his breath heaving in sharply, painfully in his lungs, and it takes him a minute to realize he is no longer alone. A sound to his right, the slightest hint of steel scraping against the tiled flooring, has him spinning toward it. He has no weapon ready – the sniper rifle is only half reassembled at this point – but his fists clench tightly. Fueled by anger, they’re as effective a weapon as any.

Laughter greets him. “Wondered when you’d realize I was here,” Coats says, cocky slant to his lips. “Must’ve been some memory to pull you that far away.”

Caleb’s lips open; he draws in another breath, unable to respond at first. Finally, he croaks out, “Aye.” Blinking, his gaze lifts. “Thought you were headed to the pub?”

“Changed my mind,” the man replies, smirk broadening. “If we’re going to defeat the lads out in the field, figured you and I needed to talk some.”

Caleb cocks his head slightly to his left, reassessing the man. “Aye,” he agrees at length, “that we do.”

Coats grabs his chair and turns it so he can rest his arms across the top while resting his chin on them. “Got something special in mind?”

Caleb’s lips slowly curve upward at the corners. “A thing or two, perhaps.”

~

They spend a good part of the night making plans. By the time morning comes, Caleb is as ready as he can be. A quick look out of the window warns of mixed weather. He and Coats pack their essential gear, grab their weapons and head to the mess to grab breakfast. They’ll be off-site for several days and reliant upon MREs during that time. Best to eat while the food is good.

They rendezvous with the others at the outdoor range. “Each pair will have three targets,” Commander Aronstein explains. “One for each of you. It will be up to you to determine who takes out the third. Each target has the standard VI to record the shot. You have five days to complete your task and reach the extraction point. Anything longer and you will be disqualified.”

The shuttle transporting the five teams leaves an hour later, depositing each pair in a separate, remote area designated for the field test. Caleb and Coats are the last to exit the vehicle and the shuttle takes off as soon as they’re out the hatch.

“Come on,” Coats says, gesturing to the east. “Let’s find some cover and get this started.”

A small copse of trees grows about a half mile ahead of them and they move off at a fast clip. Once they arrive and use the foliage for cover, Coats brings up the map they’d been given just before departure. “First target’s located here,” he says, pointing with his finger. “About five klicks away. Was thinking we come in from the south and use this area,” he points to a location that appears elevated on the map, “as our firing location.”

Caleb scans the map for other possible locations but nods after a moment. “You taking the shot, or me?”

“You take this one.” He pulls out a pair of binoculars and searches in the direction of their target then further to the south. “Let’s get moving.”

They spend the better part of the afternoon reaching their line of approach. From there it is another mile or so to their desired firing point, but arriving undetected will be far easier to accomplish under cover of darkness, so they find cover and wait until the sun sets before moving. 

The moon is barely a sliver above them and the stars provide little additional light when they finally head forward. As they near, Caleb pulls Coats to a stop and drops to the ground. He retrieves his rifle, holding it loosely in his hands while crawling the rest of the way into position, low to the ground. As soon as they arrive, he uses the scope on the _Naginata_ to make a quick sight of the target. “Here,” he whispers, nodding in satisfaction. 

Coats crawls into position beside him using his spotter’s scope to evaluate the exact distance and angle of the shot. “Looks good.” 

The rest of the night is used to set up the weapon and find additional cover and camouflage for them and their position. Once completed, they determine their exit strategy, and then it’s just a matter of waiting. As the first faint hints of brighter blue appear on the eastern horizon, they move into position.

“Ready when you are,” Coats murmurs just slightly behind Caleb on his right. They’ve compared distances, angles and refined it several times now, until Caleb is satisfied. 

Sighting the target within his own scope, Caleb settles his finger onto the trigger. He adjusts slightly for the light breeze and takes a deep breath which he starts to release …

The target flares as the bullet pierces it, a sign that he’s hit the proper spot. But neither he nor Coats is around to watch. Instead, they head out along their planned exit path.

Their next target is further away and takes nearly all day for them to reach the area. They approach with ever-constant caution, waiting until dark to move in and locate their exact firing position. This time, Caleb takes over as spotter while Coats sets the weapon up to his preferences. Unlike last time, he opts to shoot while it is still fully dark. It proves to be a bit of a challenge, an unnecessary one to Caleb’s way of thinking, but the sniper is the team leader so he does not argue. Once the shot is made, they gather their things and head out. 

Three days and two targets down. Two days and one target left. So far, so good, everything on schedule.

Well on their way to the third target location, they break near a river for a quick meal, taking cover behind a rocky outcrop. 

“So, Shannon,” Coats nonchalantly asks as he strips down enough to wash off the sweat and cool down, “what’s your story, hmm? Why’d you join up?”

Caleb sits at the edge of the water, back to solid stone while eating an MRE. They’re horrible, but he’s had far worse to eat in years past, and it fills his belly well enough, so he makes do. Shrugging in response to the question, he says, “Needed a change. You?”

Coats lowers his head into the water, face first, and covers it before pulling back and shaking most of the moisture free. Caleb ignores the droplets that fall on him; it isn’t enough to do any damage, and in all honesty, out here in the heat, it feels good. “Family,” he replies as he takes a seat and reaches for his own meal. “My father made it his career. Mum, too. Goes back generations.” He glances over at Caleb. “You a first-timer then?”

“More or less.” 

“How’d you learn to shoot so well?”

Sighing, he looks directly at Coats. There is genuine curiosity in his eyes, but something else as well. And, while Caleb is hesitant to share the truth of his past with anyone, let alone some cocky Englishman, he finds it difficult to believe that Coats has anything to do with the _Greystones_. “You’re from London, right?”

“Yeah.” 

“Ever hear of a gang called the _Greystones_?”

A moment passes, two, as the expression on Coats’ face changes subtly. Caleb notices the changes; the slightest furrow in his brow, a tightening around his lips and jaw as if he’s clenching his teeth together tightly. Stone faced and silent, the Englishman sits there staring at his hands. Even before he speaks, Caleb has his answer. 

“Yeah, I’ve heard of them,” Coats rasps. He hisses beneath his breath. “Bloody bastards!”

Caleb finishes off his MRE and moves over to wash up in the river. Following a similar procedure as Coats, he strips down and soaks his head. Unlike his partner, he allows the cold water to dribble down his chest, back and arms instead of shaking it off. When he turns back around, Caleb lifts a hand and points at an old scar on the top of his left shoulder. He watches the man whose curiosity is caught first by the tattoo on his bicep but quickly follows over to the mark he’s pointing out. “Some years ago, the _Greystones_ decided they wanted to expand. Thought us Irish’d make for easy pickings.” His eyes narrow. “Obviously they never studied their history.”

Coats stares for a long moment at Caleb, his face a neutral mask. Eventually, the slightest twitch to the corner of his lips indicates he found the humor in the words. “They came in strength?”

Caleb shrugs. “By the time they reached Shannon, aye. They eliminated all of the smaller groups along the way first, absorbed them. Then they set their sights on us.”

Coats leans forward, eyes focused across the river. “Who is ‘us.’”

“ _Tenth Street Reds_.” There is no sign of recognition in his face at that name. “Didn’t figure you’d have heard of us. We weren’t as notorious as the _Greystones_. Yet, they hunted us down, killed us. Eliminated us. Finally absorbed the last few who remained. The _Reds_ died the day I left Ireland.” Caleb sighs, adding quietly, “And now, apparently, they’ve been reborn.’

Startled grey eyes focus back on him. “What do you mean, reborn?”

“Just before I came here, I was told the _Greystones_ have changed their name to _The Tenth Street_ _Reds_.” He retakes his seat and taps the scar. “A … parting gift, shall we say?” As injuries he’d suffered over the years, it is relatively tame. A graze, really, but one that left a mark. He’d decided to keep it instead of seek treatment as a reminder of where he came from and a warning for those who would think to mess with him. 

Coats grunts and finishes off his MRE. He grabs a nearby stone and tosses it in his hand twice before hurling it toward the water. “The _Greystones_ are a bloody menace,” he growls. “They have their hands so deep into so many areas, it’s impossible not to run into them anywhere, but especially in London.”

That actually startles Caleb. “I was in London when I first enlisted,” he says. “I didn’t see any sign of them.”

Coats’ lips twist into a wry smile. “No, they’re very careful. But they’re there, and anyone who gets into their way pays a price.”

Its obvious Coats is referencing a personal experience. “Who?” The question escapes before Caleb can stop himself. 

“Younger brother. Luke was eighteen, just out of school, and about to enlist. Walked home from a friend’s house one evening – fuck, the sun was still up! – and stopped to grab takeaway for dinner.” His lips tighten again. “Thai food. _Pad Thai_ and _Satay_. My idea.” He runs a hand over his face. “So many times since then I wish I’d said forget it.” Sighing heavily, he runs it through his hair. “But I was home on leave after Basic and after Alliance food, well …”

Caleb nods. “I understand,” he replies quietly. 

“Anyway, Luke walked into the restaurant during ‘collection’ time. Owner was short or was shorting them or something, and the _Greystones_ lackeys weren’t happy. Protection money is one of their biggest rackets, and Luke, well …. Long story short, they gunned him down when he tried to intervene on the owner’s behalf.” Coats’ face twists to an almost feral snarl. “Got a call hours later. He never stood a chance.” He grits his teeth so hard; Caleb can practically hear them gnashing from where he sits. “Wanted to go hunt those bastards down and kill them with my own two hands.”

_Wouldn’t have done any good and you’d be just as dead as your brother._ No point in telling Coats that, though, so instead, Caleb pushes to his feet and says, “We need to go.” 

For just a moment, their eyes meet as Coats stares up from his position. “I hope you took out as many of those bastards as you could.”

The smile Caleb returns is dark, but reassuring. “Oh, aye, and then some,” he promises. He extends his hand. “Come on.”

Their journey continues. As the day winds down and they reach their position, Caleb stops Coats. They’ve already decided Caleb will take the shot, so he has point on set up. “Wait,” he says. 

“What is it?”

Caleb is quick to explain. “When I was in the _Reds_ , we each had our own names in Irish.”

Confusion twists Coats’ brow. “So?”

“I was _sealgaire_ , the hunter.” He tilts his head up in the direction they’re headed. “You wanted to know why I was such a good shot with my background? I perfected my skills taking out _Greystones_ and other enemies of the _Reds_.” He reaches over and lightly punches Coats in the arm. “For what it’s worth, I think you’ve earned your name as well.”

Coats huffs softly. “I’m almost afraid to ask. What name is that?”

“ _Mhar_ _ú_.”

Silence falls; Coats shifts. “And that means?”

Caleb grins. “Get us through this shot and I might just tell you.” Without another word, he moves forward, letting Coats decide if he’ll follow or not.


	5. Battle Buddies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the walls come tumbling down.
> 
> aka: The proverbial shit hits the fan ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HUGE thank you as always to [potionsmaster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/potionsmaster/pseuds/potionsmaster) and [mallaidhsomo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mallaidhsomo/pseuds/mallaidhsomo) for their betaing skills! (and for really pushing me on this chapter in particular!)

When the initial field trials are finished, though Caleb and Coats remain in a virtual tie at the top of the standings, their standing with one another, at least, has thawed. The situation is not perfect, but it’s tolerable, which is an improvement. Slights and slurs take on new meaning, a laugh instead of anger, verbal retaliation in kind instead of fists. In the weeks that follow, even more progress is made, and as they approach the last few weeks of the sniper training course, it is rare to find them apart.

But training isn’t over yet, and they still have one last trial to face; field infiltration. When it is announced candidates are to select their partners this time instead of being assigned, neither gives it a second thought. The competitive burn between them is still present, and they are more than aware that if they utterly fuck this up it will likely bring them both down out of the running. Neither plans on that. 

The day of the trial comes; bright and sunny but with a forecast for high winds as a front passes through. Caleb sits quietly the entire shuttle ride out to their insertion point, calm. Patient. Slightly hunched forward, he rests his elbows on his legs with his hands clasped together in front of him, eyes locked on the far side of the shuttle where the seam of the hatch meets the deck of the shuttle. He is focused, intent, ready. Beside him, Coats sits similarly, though his eyes are closed. When the shuttle descends, both snap out of their trance-like states and rise to their feet, ready to go. It is time to get down to business.

Like their previous test, they are dropped some miles from their target. This time, it isn’t just their shooting accuracy they are being judged on, but their ability to make their way in and out of the target area without being detected. They have two days to achieve success and reach the evacuation zone for extraction before being disqualified.

**_Day One_ **

A couple of miles from the target, they pause to reassess the area. Coats surveys the terrain with a pair of binoculars; he is spotter for this test. “There,” he murmurs, pointing slightly to the west. “Elevation isn’t too bad, decent cover, enough space to zig zag our way in.” He hands the viewfinder over to Caleb. “What d’you think?”

Caleb nods his agreement after making his own assessment. “Aye, sounds like a plan.”

They take their time moving forward. The trick is to get in, hit the target, and get out without detection. No hint of movement. No sign of their presence. They’re dressed in their field gear and have taken all basic precautions they can, but Caleb still has a few tricks up his sleeve from his _Reds_ days they can put to use. 

_“What’s this?” Coats asks as Caleb hands over a tube-shaped piece of metal._

_Caleb huffs and reaches back for it. “If you’re so thick you can’t recognize a sniper rifle suppressor…”_

_Coats’ eyes narrow and he yanks his hand back. “Didn’t say I didn’t recognize it, did I? What’s wrong with the ones we were issued?”_

_Caleb shrugs, a simple yet subtle motion. “This one is improved, shall we say?” Tapping on his omni-tool, he waves it over Coats left arm. “This’ll help too, give us a bit longer with our tac cloaks.” Before he moves away, he gives Coats a long, hard look straight in the eyes. “There’s a few tricks the_ Greystones _never caught onto that we can use to our advantage this time out…”_

They are in the best position with the best chance of success. It’s time to put the plan into action. 

About a mile from the target, they decide they are positioned well enough to take a break, eat, and rest up. Though mostly in open fields, they find a rocky area for added coverage. Darkness is still several hours away. They consider taking a night shot, but ultimately decide against it; after their last mission together, their preference for shots under cover of darkness or early dawn are now well known among their classmates and trainers. Coming into this trial, the plan is to approach during full daylight and use the darkness to cover their escape.

About halfway through their break, the scrape of boots against dirt and gravel alerts them to approaching footsteps. While the target for this test is a dummy containing a recording VI like always, there are additional Alliance personnel on patrol in the area waiting, watching, evaluating. Caleb and Coats hide any visible evidence of their presence even though they’re certain they’ve covered the majority of their tracks. The steps come nearer, too close for Caleb’s liking, but fade off a few minutes later. _A patrol rather than a hunting party_. The psychological part of the test; determine how well a shooter can keep calm and steady under pressure. Caleb learned that lesson years before. Coats, he discovers, is just as good at it.

Caleb decides to wait an additional fifteen minutes before setting out again, just to make sure the patrol is gone. He’s not willing to take any unnecessary risks if they can help it. If that means moving into position later than planned, so be it. They can always adjust their timing once they arrive if they have to. They’ve planned this mission with some leeway on either side, after all. 

The remaining distance seems to take an eternity to cross, and much of it is done on their bellies. No more than a foot ever separates them, and rather than being overheard, they resort to hand signals and touch to communicate. The weather remains bright and clear as well, just the wind to deal with. Caleb would have preferred overcast skies or even pouring rain; he has no doubt this time window was chosen specifically because of it, either. Poorer conditions could be used to his advantage. A driving gale off the Irish Sea might even make the situation interesting. _This isn’t Shannon,_ he reminds himself. _And these aren’t the Greystones._ _More’s the pity._

Finally, they reach their desired spot but time is running out. The sun is on its descent and darkness is only a matter of minutes away. Carefully and quietly, Caleb pulls out his weapon and sets up. Coats scoots in close, using hand signals to indicate distance and range then backs up enough to give Caleb room. Within minutes, he is ready.

He sights the target easily enough. Notices three Alliance personnel on watch duty – one near the target, the other two patrolling about a hundred yards out and around. Timing his shot to avoid hitting them isn’t a challenge, but the moment he fires, he and Coats won’t be invisible anymore. He waves Coats off to the east a few hundred more feet. The wind conveniently stops gusting, giving Caleb a prime opportunity as he lines up his shot. 

He crawls backward from his position even as the shot lands on the target. As shouts rise from the patrol group and the pounding footsteps rise in response, Caleb slings his rifle over his shoulder and slinks away as quietly as he can, relying on their being distracted to help his getaway. He eventually catches up to Coats and they continue away from the range another hundred yards … until a heavy thud echoes behind them. It’s followed closely by a second and then a third.

Caleb freezes, hand shooting out to capture Coats by his booted ankle. “Wait!” he hisses, yanking hard to catch his attention. When Coats looks back at him, Caleb whispers, “Did you hear that?” Coats nods. Carefully, in case it is a trap, or a part of their test, Caleb looks behind them. He scans the area as best he can, but one thing is clear; something isn’t right. There is no sign of the Alliance personnel. 

“Where are they?” Coats hisses.

“They should be there…something’s wrong.” Caleb is nearly certain he knows what happened, but he doesn’t want to believe it; the sound of a body, dead-weight, falling to the ground. “We aren’t alone.”

“Is this part of the test?”

Caleb shakes his head. No, this wouldn’t be part of the test…not like this, anyway. Using hand signals, he directs Coats to follow him. They need to check this out and quickly.

“We’re running out of time, Shannon.”

Caleb hesitates. What he says is true. They’ve budgeted only a certain amount of time to get to the extraction point. Still … “We may be the actual targets. We need to know what this is.”

It takes far too much of their time to backtrack, reroute, and approach, but eventually Caleb reaches the body closest to them. It isn’t a face he knows – not surprising, probably someone from the base outside of the sniper school – but a glassy stare combined with the lack of movement or pulse assures him each is quite dead. Dressed in light armor and helm, there is always a chance of a stray shot during field tests. It takes another minute or two to locate the wounds; head shot, one from the side, two from behind. Never saw it coming. Never stood a chance. 

Caleb looks over at Coats. “Whoever did this is good,” he whispers. “Professional good. We need to be on alert.”

“Let’s get out of here,” Coats mutters. “Think it’s safe to assume we’re now targets if we weren’t before.”

“Aye.”

Which means their journey to the extraction point just became even more difficult.

The only benefit to their current situation is that it’s now almost dark. Lack of daylight should, hopefully, help their cause more than hinder it, though if they really _are_ the target, their unknown adversary is undoubtedly prepared. Still, they do not break cover and sneak away in a far different direction from the one they’d come in or planned to use for their exit. After three careful, cautious hours, they near a forested area, hoping the trees and brush will offer more safety.

Once they are well within the tree line, Caleb grabs Coats’ arm. “Wait.” He lowers his gear off his shoulders except for his rifle and starts to climb one of the older, thicker, solid trees. Before he gets far, Coats loops the binoculars around his neck then drops back into cover to watch. Caleb scales the tree like he climbs a ladder until he reaches a height he can look out and view their surroundings. In the dark, he cannot see much, but if there is even a chance, any advantage that might help them, it’s worth the risk. 

The fields around them are dark and still. No obvious signs to indicate anyone is present. _Definitely well trained_ , he thinks as he climbs down several minutes later. 

“See anything?”

“No.” He joins Coats in some of the thicker brush. “How far to the extraction point?”

Coats shakes his head. “Too far to reach it by noon,” he says. With a night vision filter in place, he pulls up a map on his omni-tool, turning his arm so Caleb can see. “And all of this is open field.”

Reaching for his gear, Caleb hefts it back onto his shoulders. “Then we should go.”

Hours pass as they traverse the unknown landscape as quietly as they can. It’s a strange sensation, being the hunted instead of the hunter, and Caleb doesn’t particularly care for it. He hasn’t really had to worry about it before except for training purposes since leaving Shannon…and this is not typical Alliance training. Whoever is behind it and for whatever reason, it has more of a personal feel to it. Vengeance?

_The Greystones,_ he decides as he and Coats cross a small stream. _It has to be. They found out about me or Coats – where we are. Who else wants retribution?_

He frowns, concern chasing his heels. _Who else knows I’m here except_ Athair? _He wouldn’t say anything unless…?_ Caleb swallows tightly. _Unless they forced it out of him?_

It’s too much, he’s sinking too fast, too deep. But hot on the heels of that thought, another, more disturbing one, crosses his mind and he glances over at Coats, eyes narrowing in suspicion this time. If it is the _Reds_ behind it, there is always the possibility they either sent in or turned his roommate after arriving at sniper school. Who better to take him out than someone who shares quarters with him? _Easy enough to fabricate a story, too. Perhaps he and his brother are_ Greystones _themselves and out for revenge?_

The idea turns Caleb’s stomach. Since their friendship took a turn for the better, Coats has shared proof of his assertions, including a snapshot of him and Luke together taken right before he headed to Basic. _Don’t go all paranoid_ , Caleb chastises himself. _Be alert, be prepared, but don’t overreact._

They stop in the pre-dawn hours, still miles from their destination, and take a break for food and rest. “We’re going to have to find our way back on our own,” Caleb says. “You know that, right?”

“Yeah. Twenty miles on foot. Lovely cross-country jaunt. Good for the health.” The sarcasm in Coats’ voice is more than obvious. “Do we still try for the extraction point first?” He pulls up the map again. “It’s three miles in the opposite direction and there’s little-to-no cover.”

Caleb shakes his head. “No, we head back to base. If we had half a chance of making it in time, I’d agree, but there’s a fair shot this bastard knows that’s where we were headed. Too much of a risk.”

Closing his omni-tool, Coats glances over. “Who the hell do you think it is?”

Caleb sighs heavily, wording his reply carefully. “No one from base,” he replies. “Not out killing their own people. That means someone outside. Probably not Alliance. Probably someone who wants one,” he gives Coats a long, knowing look, “or both of us, dead.”

There is no shock or surprise on the man’s face, just grim acceptance. “You’re thinking _Greystones_ , aren’t you?”

Caleb shakes his head. “ _Reds_ , now,” he corrects. “And, aye, who else could it be? We both have ties to them, one way or another.”

Coats grumbles quietly beneath his breath. “Just let me get my hands on him…”

Humor, even when dark and in times of stress, is a form of release, and Caleb takes full advantage. Even when fighting against paranoia. “Remind me not to get on your bad side.” 

Caleb snorts softly. “What, you didn’t figure that out that first night at the pub?”

“I know my strengths and weaknesses,” Caleb reminds him. “I had you. You just didn’t know it.” He tugs up the collar to his field jacket, hunkering deeper into it. At least it’s not the middle of winter. That would just be insulting. “Get some rest. I’ll keep first watch.” 

And he does. After two hours or so, he trades off with Coats so he can catch some sleep. Rising early, by the time they are ready to leave, the skies in the east are starting to lighten. 

**_Day Two_ **

“What I want to know is,” Coats says as they continue their journey, “are we still being followed?”

“Always assume the worst,” Caleb advises. 

“’Prepare for the worst, hope for the best,’ eh?” Coats chuckles. “Never would have taken you for an optimist.”

Caleb side-eyes him. “Don’t start now.”

The hours melt away as they adjust their course twice. Much of what they have to travel will be in little to no cover, and with the extra time spent to counter that, it will take them a good couple of days to get there. 

Their second night passes much as the first. When they rise in the early morning, making their way through the last of the forested area they’ve been relying on, Caleb stops before they clear it. On the other side of the road from them are miles of wide-open fields. He scans the area, left to right, searching for signs of anyone, any _thing_ to indicate a threat. All he finds is a slow, lazy fog meandering through, that rapidly burns off with each minute of daylight. “We’ve got to chance it,” he whispers. 

Coats nods understanding. “Let’s just hope the farmer’s daughters don’t notice two strapping young lads marching through their daddy’s fields.”

Caleb chokes on a laugh but spares the man a quick grin. Eyeing him, he replies, “Don’t know about you Sassenach types, but us Paddys are irresistible.” His grin turns smug when he is rewarded with a solid punch to his upper arm.

_It’s now or never_ , he thinks, taking a deep breath while realizing he is about to present himself as a target both forward and behind. But there’s nothing to be done about it. Carefully and quietly, Caleb slips out of the trees and onto the lane that runs parallel. He makes it a half dozen steps before pain slices through him, a heavy grunt fills the air around him, and the earth rises to meet his face as darkness descends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! No Irish this chapter! ;) (wait for it ...)

**Author's Note:**

> ** _Tada gan iarracht_ = Nothing is done without effort


End file.
